A man named Michael Jackson was staying at a hotel I may or may not work for. He was not The Michael Jackson, but he was A Michael Jackson. He was a tall, black man in his late 40's-early 50's and was nice. He was having dinner with his friend whose name happened to be Josh Groban. We joked about their names (Michael got a lot more shit for his name than Josh did, obviously, because nobody knows who the fuck Josh Groban is) and then we all went about our respective business. A couple weeks later another man named Michael Jackson died. It was big news, since this Michael Jackson was arguably the most famous person in the world. Some people sang, danced, donned shiny gloves. Some people mourned, claimed to see the late pop-star's face in the clouds. Some people said the phrase 'the late pop-star' a whole fucking lot. Some people just tried to ignore all the carrying-ons. Amongst all the chatter and nonstop barrage of The Michael Jackson's entire musical catalog, if you looked past all the youtube videos of inmates doing Thriller and the poorly designed tribute t-shirts and lighters and hats and seat covers, somewhere in the middle of America, another Michael Jackson had a weird couple of days.





(Also, Michael Jackson was, for months, the name of Saville's imaginary friend. He has since befriended a new eerily-named invisible creature, James Brown. I am not making this up.)


((This post is dedicated to all the girls out there who just want to have regular hair, regular waist-to-hip ratios, regular lives but live in the shadow of someone else who bears the same name. Keep your heads up, Beyonces of the world. Keep your heads up.))

Glares, Small Dough?

Where am I?

Here's a hint: The number of beers on tap divided by the number of boys in plaid equals 213, which is both the area code in which this spot is located and the time of day I found myself shitfaced from a extra bubblegummy, bananarific hef.

Where's Geraldo?

Here's a fun game: Where was this photo taken? Hint: It's really, really easy if you know LA.



Hmm. Considering the how the males within my chosen peer-group have a pension for covering receeding hairlines with fedoras, beanies ala Zissou, and a plethora of different shaggy haircuts, maybe I should reconsider changing the name of this post to Bears Baldo. Not that this particular kid was bald. I'm just saying. Also, as far as I know, there is no one named Geraldo in this picture. I figured I should note that before anyone spent hours looking for the one Waldo without a shoe or the one early 30's freelancer at the Pho spot without a beard.







Fuck. I spoiled the game.